Titanic Week 2026 - Soliloquism

“Joe, the Ship Is Going Down Fast”: Joseph Pierre Duquemin

When Joseph embarked on 10 April 1912, he did so in the company of 28-year-old Howard Williams, his good "chum" from back home. Joseph called him Harry.

Each of them already had work lined up in the United States.

Harry was Boston-bound, and planned to work at a shipyard. Joseph intended to continue his work as a quarryman once he reached his destination in western New York state.

Coincidentally, Joseph and Harry also knew at least one Second-class passenger on Titanic: a Guernsey fruit farmer and athlete called Bert Denbuoy.

When Titanic struck the iceberg on the night of April 14th, Joseph Duquemin was in his quarters and settled in to sleep.

The impact of the collision threw him out of his bunk.

Alarmed, Joseph immediately proceeded up to the boat deck, where he was instructed to return to bed.

But he could not bring himself to abide that instruction.

Instead, Joseph went to Harry’s cabin, where he found him abed. Joseph urged his friend to accompany him to the boat deck with haste. Something was dreadfully amiss.

Harry heeded the warning, dressed quickly, and followed Joseph up top to the Third-class promenade, at the stern.

Once there, the pair struggled with their next move.

Joseph recounted this back-and-forth in a letter to his father, which was published by the Guernsey Evening Press on 6 June 1912.

Joseph's humble assertion that he “walked up and down the ship for a bit" belies prior reporting from that very same periodical.

According to an article published by the Guernsey Evening Press a full month prior to his firsthand account, Joseph spent the disaster on deck, aiding women and children as they awaited lifeboats on the port side.

Curiously, though, this article makes no mention of Harry Williams's presence at all.

Instead, it reports that Joseph was acting alongside his friend from Second-class, the aforementioned Bert Denbuoy.

Whether both accounts are complete, or two halves of a whole—and, if the latter, in which sequence they might have occurred—is unclear.

Neither Harry Williams nor Bert Denbuoy survived. Harry was reportedly drowned in the eddy of Titanic's suction.

As he flailed, he screamed for Joseph.

Having struck out away from the ship, Joseph Duquemin swam hard for the nearest lifeboat. It was Collapsible D, which was launched off the port side at 2:05 a.m.—only fifteen minutes before Titanic fully submerged.

But when Joseph at last reached the lifeboat, he was refused entry. "They were," as Joseph's son summarized, "afraid too many people would get on board."

As Joseph gripped the canvas sides of the lifeboat, he was beaten away with oars; it was the same violence inflicted upon fellow steerage passenger Thomas McCormack.

Joseph reversed his fate, however, when he insisted that he was a capable oarsman. Once pulled from the water, he readily hauled another struggling swimmer aboard: First-class passenger Frederick Hoyt, whose frantic wife was already in the same lifeboat.

Joseph's goodwill was not well-received by the other occupants in Collapsible D.

News of the disaster reached Guernsey almost immediately, on the 15th or 16th of April.

Terrified, Mr. and Mrs. Duquemin awaited any word of Joseph’s fate. According to Joseph’s little brother Gerald, his mother was put on bedrest by the family physician due to shock.

Word arrived almost an agonized week later, on the 20th. It was delivered personally by the master of the local Post Office.

Mr. Duquemin’s hands were shaking so badly that he could not read the telegram he held; Joseph’s sister had to read the words aloud for the family.

It was a meager five words: “Joseph Duquemin reported safe, Ismay.”

Upon his arrival in New York City, Joseph was hospitalized for his frostbitten legs, as well as presumed injury to his hands from his beating with the lifeboat’s oars.

"Every winter," his son remembered, "his hands would turn white where they hit him with the oars."

Once recuperated, Joseph proceeded with his plan and traveled to Rochester, New York, for masonry work. He wrote to his father, "I am glad to say that I have quite recovered from my dreadful experience. I am well and at work."

At some point thereafter, he moved to Windham County, Connecticut. And shortly thereafter, he served in the First World War.

Upon his return to the United States, Joseph migrated southward toward the Connecticut coastline. Reportedly, Frederick Hoyt—the affluent First-class passenger Joseph had pulled into Collapsible D—connected him with a job opportunity in Stamford, Connecticut.

And so it was that Joseph settled there, married, and had three children.

According to family, Joseph was a stern and stubborn sort; he spoke of his experience on the Titanic rarely if at all, and it was not an open topic of discussion in his household.

When it came to Titanic, "You didn't talk until [Joseph] talked."

But for the rest of his life, Joseph woke up screaming.

In his nightmares, he could still hear Harry crying out his name.

“Good-bye For Ever”: James Farrell

The Kates of Co. Longford might not have survived that night, had it not been for James Farrell.

James, born in 1886, was one of nine children, and thus a middle child amongst a swarm of siblings.

According to census data, his family owned a farm; by 1911, records indicate that his mother, Ellen, had died.

In the 1911 census, 24-year-old James was noted on the same farm property as his father, as an unmarried farmer’s son. And as a farmhand, he was reportedly a rather brawny lad.

What reason James had for traveling to America in 1912 is still uncertain. Records suggest he might have been due to meet a Patrick McGrath, or perhaps a James Keating, both of whom resided in Brooklyn.

A fair few Third-class ticket-holders, who like James were leaving their homes in Co. Longford, also traveled by train to the Queenstown dock that day.

That particular group reportedly made fast friends with each other, having recognized one another from neighboring villages in Co. Longford. This group included Kate Gilnagh and Thomas McCormack, amongst quite a few others.

They chatted and joked, and even had a sing-song on the train ride, according to a secondhand account.

All things considered, this group most likely included James Farrell.

From the train, the Co. Longford crew boarded the tender ship SS America.

As the little ship shuffled to Titanic’s side, the group likely watched the hills, the churning waves, and the colorless facade of Queenstown receding from view.

In those moments, fellow steerage passenger and musician Eugene Daly rested his pipes against his shoulder, bit down on the mouthpiece, and began to play. It was a moment much adored by those on board.

Once embarked on Titanic, the 113 newly arrived steerage passengers would have descended to the lower decks.

It might have been tiresome, navigating the corridors toward their assigned berths: single men to the bow section; unwed girls aft, in the stern. Married couples—or those couples pretending to be—shared the stern with the ladies.

Later, a settle-in was followed by a hungry pilgrimage to the Third-class dining saloon, which was located on F Deck. The passengers were obligated to arrive to dinner in shifts, since the dining saloon could not accommodate everyone at once.

Therein, rows of long, dressed tables awaited them. The sight of pressed tablecloths and electric lights were a delight that many had never before beheld.

As it was in the berths, the unmarried men were secluded from maidens and families while dining; the saloon, divided as it was by a watertight bulkhead, facilitated this separation.

Coats were hung on pegs along the white walls, and seats were taken. The dinner was served by stewards; the food was robust, and the room presumably boisterous.

After dinner, the Co. Longford company might have reconvened in the Third-class general room to spend time in each other’s company.

They might have taken up a game of chess, cards, or dominoes; alternately, they might have decided to enjoy music by the upright piano. One of the Co. Longford girls, named Kate Murphy, had brought her violin along.

The men likewise might have adjourned to the adjacent Third-Class Smoking Room, which was designated exclusively for their use.

The Co. Longford group almost certainly spent time out on the aft decks as well.

Much of James Farrell’s time was likely spent this way: reporting for meal times, and spending time with his new friends from Co. Longford.

The men and women from Co. Longford—James Farrell among them—seem to have done their utmost to stick together throughout the sinking.

After Kate Gilnagh and her cabin mates were awoken and alerted to the emergency by Eugene Daly, they tried to ascend the decks as quickly as they could.

But, according to survivor testimony given to author Walter Lord, the steerage passengers were held back, and thus barricaded from salvation in a lifeboat.

In that dire moment, James Farrell appears in a survivor account for the first time.

Others somehow reached the second class Promenade space on B deck, then couldn’t find their way any further… Others beat on the barriers, demanding to be let through. Third class passenger Daniel Buckley… jumped to his feet and raised up the steps again. The seaman took one look, locked the gate and fled. The passenger smashed the lock and dashed through, howling what he would do if he caught the sailor...

At another barrier a seaman held back Kathy Gilnagh, Kate Mullins, and Kate Murphy… Suddenly a steerage passenger, Jim Farrell, a strapping Irishman from the girls’ home county, barged up. “Great God, man!” He roared. “Open the gate and let the girls through!” It was a superb demonstration of sheer voice power. To the girls' astonishment, the sailor meekly complied.

In the calamity that followed the girls' escape from behind the unspecified "barrier" between the Third- and Second-class decks, Kate Gilnagh found herself temporarily separated from her Co. Longford friends.

They were, at that moment, located a full deck above her.

She did manage, under curious circumstance, to rejoin the other Co. Longford lasses up on the boat deck, where they had just boarded Lifeboat 16.

And it was here that Kate Gilnagh would encounter James Farrell one more time.

Kate had just been denied entry to the lifeboat; it was too full to take on any additional passengers, she was told. But she finagled her way aboard with a compulsive fib.

Defying great odds, James Farrell had succeeded in securing the girls their survival. And so, as the lifeboat descended, he took the opportunity to bestow upon Kate Gilnagh a last kindness.

James Farrell was the 68th Titanic victim found in the Mackay Bennett's recovery expedition. On 24 April 1912, his corpse was committed to the sea.

They buried him with his Rosary beads.

Kate Gilnagh, along with multiple other Co. Longford girls, survived the sinking.

And Kate believed that James Farrell's bellow across the barrier that night was what saved her life.

Kate was interviewed about her survivor experience in November of 1956. Even then, after more than four decades, she was moved to reflect on James Farrell's fearlessness.

"Well, we were standing on the steerage, Third Class, they call it, and then we couldn't get up to Second," Kate said. "And of course then there was one man with us.

And he was our guardian angel."

“Too Heart-broken To Talk Much”: Austin Van Billiard

The family arrived in London for what was intended to be a three-week stay before continuing on to the United States. Austin had already forged connections with diamond brokers in New York City, and he was eager to get there.

Austin excitedly informed his parents back home of his upcoming return to the United States—but in limited detail. Austin conveyed to them only that he would travel later into the spring.

Quite intentionally, he did not specify when.

Austin was expected in New York City by the aforementioned diamond brokers. And so he seized upon the opportunity to surprise his parents with an early visit.

He had not seen them in over ten years.

After some deliberation, it was decided that Maud would stay behind with the younger children in London, to extend her recuperation from childbirth.

But Austin and their two oldest sons, 10-year-old James and 9-year-old Walter, would travel ahead and surprise the family back in Pennsylvania.

And so, Austin Van Billiard booked passage on Titanic.

Curiously, despite his evident familial affluence and his cache of diamonds, Austin Van Billiard purchased Third-class tickets.

It has been speculated that Austin was trying to lay low because of the treasures he carried, which reportedly amounted to "many thousand dollars worth" of uncut diamonds. Sailing in steerage certainly would dispel any notions that he was well-off.

It has also been suggested that, since First- and Second-class passenger lists were published in American newspapers, that Austin hoped to keep his homecoming a surprise from his parents by staying anonymous in Third-class.

Or maybe he was simply frugal.

It is unknown how Austin and his sons spent their time onboard, perhaps supporting the notion that the Van Billiards strove to keep a low profile.

Austin's movements during the sinking are unknown. Contemporary reporting suggests that James and Walter would have clung to their father as Titanic foundered, rather than be separated in a lifeboat. Or perhaps, because the Van Billiards were steerage passengers, they never got to a lifeboat at all.

Austin and both of his boys died when Titanic sank.

Austin was 35 years old.

In Pennsylvania, Austin’s parents, James and Phoebe, had no reason to believe they were affected by the Titanic disaster; they did not know their son had been on board with the grandchildren they'd never met.

But when James read a passenger manifest in the newspaper, he saw his own last name.

James believed it a coincidence; Austin and the children were not due to arrive for weeks yet.

Never the less, James wired his daughter-in-law in London, inquiring if Austin and the boys had, unbeknownst to him, already sailed.

Maud confirmed the worst.

“The Noise Was Terrific”: Sensory Titanic

Samuel, like other perturbed passengers, mused that he would “soon get used to it.”

Above the persistent mechanical hum would have been the simple commotion of everyday life that played out in Titanic’s common areas.

With her multiple long promenades, Titanic was made for moseying about. And in spite of the April briskness, her passengers took full advantage. Conversations in this setting were probably private enough, likely unintelligible from afar due to the sea winds.

But not everyone received the memo regarding on-deck decorum.

Multiple passengers in Second-class noted a loud jollity amongst the younger men on board.

Henry Hodges, who was on his way to Boston to visit with family, made mention of some notably raucous lads in a letter to a Mr. Hector Young. He posted the missive during Titanic’s stopover in Queenstown, Ireland, on 11 April.

Kate did, however, look fondly on two of the children nearby. The LaRoche daughters—3-year-old Simone and 1-year-old Louise—were “dolls running about.”

In steerage, the nearly 100 children under age 14 were also underfoot and surely making themselves heard as they played. Eliza Johnston, for example, wrote in a postcard to her father that “we are all feeling A1. The kids are skipping about like skylarks.”

Lawrence Beesley observed Third-class goings-on from afar, and he described a vibrant soundscape of music and play among the passengers on deck.

In Second-class, Juliette LaRoche, the mother of the aforementioned “dolls” Simone and Louise, described a similar experience in a letter to her father back in France. “The chime of the bell announcing breakfast woke them up. Louise laughed a lot at it…”

Juliette went on to describe yet another element of the auditory experience on Titanic: that of near-ubiquitous music.

“I am writing from the reading room,” she wrote. “There is a concert in here, near me, one violin, two cellos, one piano.”

The Titanic was equipped with a reported six Steinway pianos of varying models; three were located in First-class, two were located in Second-class, and the last was for the use of steerage passengers.

While the First-class pianos were reserved for Titanic's musicians, record exists of passengers playing the pianos in both the Second- and Third-Classes.

One of the two Second-class Steinways was played upon by 27-year-old Robert Douglas Norman during an impromptu hymn service held by Reverend Ernest Carter, a fellow passenger, on the same evening as the iceberg strike.

The Third-class piano, located in the general room on C-Deck, existed solely for passengers—and it was certainly used, particularly during the party held on the night of the iceberg strike.

Gershon Cohen wrote that, even in the immediate aftermath of the collision, "people were singing and playing the piano, and the band [of passenger musicians] was still playing."

Eugene Daly corroborated Gershon's recollection. "I played the pipes and there was a great deal of dancing and singing. This was kept up even after we had struck."

The roaring of the exhaust steam suddenly stopped, making a great quietness, in spite of many mixed noises of hurrying human effort and anguish. As I recall it, the lights were still on, even then. There seemed to be quite a ruddy glare, but it was a murky light, with distant people and objects vaguely outlined. The stars were brilliant and the water oily…

Occasionally there had been a muffled thud or deadened explosion within the ship. Now, without warning she seemed to start forward, moving forward and into the water at an angle of about fifteen degrees. This movement, with the water rushing up toward us was accompanied by a rumbling roar, mixed with more muffled explosions. It was like standing under a steel railway bridge while an express train passes overhead, mingled with the noise of a pressed steel factory and wholesale breakage of china...

Titanic went under the water with very little apparent suction or noise… Praying and cursing and cries of entreaty and words of command came from those of us packed like sardines on the hull of [overturned Collapsible B].

Probably a minute passed with almost dead silence and quiet. Then an individual call for help, from here, from there; gradually swelling into a composite volume of one long continuous wailing chant, from the fifteen hundred in the water all around us. It sounded like locusts on a mid-summer night, in the woods in Pennsylvania.

This terrible continuing cry lasted for twenty or thirty minutes, gradually dying away, as one after another could no longer withstand the cold...

Hyslop, Donald, Alastair Forsyth, and Sheila Jemima. "Titanic Voices: Memories from the Fateful Voyage." Sutton Publishing Limited, 1997.

Behe, George. "On Board RMS Titanic: Memories of the Maiden Voyage." The History Press, 2012.

Beesley, Lawrence. "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic." Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912. Rpt. by Mariner Books, 2000.

Bile, Serge. "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche." Mango Publishing, 2019.

https://titanicarchive.org/collections/documents/john-jack-borland-thayer/the-sinking-of-the-ss-titanic

https://newengland.com/yankee/history/titanic-survivor/

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/community/threads/the-pianos.53155/

“Attached to Each Other”: Denis Lennon & Mary Mullin

The tender SS America shrunk down as it bobbed toward the RMS Titanic, ferrying over 120 passengers toward their fate. And amongst those passengers was Joe’s little sister, Mary, along with her lover Denis Lennon.

They were eloping.

Mary's family evidently did not approve.

Joe Mullin, a runner for Guinness and reportedly a mercurial, impulsive drinker, was witnessed pounding his fists on the dock rail in ire.

The police at Queenstown later affirmed to Joe that yes, they had indeed seen a young couple who appeared to be “runaways.” But they did not react, as they had not been informed of any runaways.

Mary was just 18 years old; Denis, 20.

It all unfurled after the Easter holiday.

Mary had been at home in Co. Galway with her mother and siblings. She was then due to return to her boarding school, called Loreto Abbey.

The Mullin family was a prosperous one. Mary’s widowed mother, Delia, owned a thriving pub and general store in Clarinbridge, Co. Galway. Joe worked as the bookkeeper, while his younger brother Owen was shopkeeper.

And according to the 1911 census, the shop assistant was Denis Lennon.

Denis, born in Co. Longford, was the third of six children in an impoverished family. Mary’s hometown of Clarinbridge was well over 100 miles away.

And yet somehow, for reasons still unknown, Denis had made his way there.

Mary was not present at home at the time of the 1911 census; she instead is found listed as a pupil at Loreto Abbey, located in Rathfarnham.

Despite this, at some point, Denis and Mary fell in love. Afraid that their desire to marry would be denied by her family, they made a plan.

It had been arranged that, following the Easter holiday with her family, Mary would take the train into Dublin, to be collected by her brother Bartholomew. He would thereafter deliver Mary back to school.

She reportedly left on time for the rail station on departure day.

But Mary Mullin never met with Bartholomew in Dublin.

Mary’s sister Bridget suspected something and made her way to the railway. There, Bridget had spotted Denis “the barman” watching her from a train.

Mary and Denis were presumably gleeful, then, to find out that their passage was transferred to the maiden voyage of Titanic, scheduled to depart only four days later.

Their ticket bore falsehoods.

The pair reported that they were siblings: a 21-year-old laborer and a 20-year-old spinster. Perhaps in a cheeky nod to their intention to marry, they registered solely under Denis’s last name.

And so, having eluded Joe Mullin’s handgun, they boarded Titanic as “Denis and Mary Lennon.”

Little exists in the way of information regarding Mary and Denis while on board Titanic, although contemporary reporting asserts that they “were spoken to while aboard the ill-fated vessel.”

Neither survived.

At first, it was speculated that maybe "the bride" Mary had survived, but it was a futile hope.

In her bereavement, Delia Mullin engaged local solicitors, Blake & Kenny, to investigate the fate of her stolen daughter.

After interviewing survivors, the solicitors discovered that a couple resembling Denis and Mary that either had a single lifeboat seat—or alternately, a single lifebelt—between them, meant for the girl. She refused, stating that ‘if he couldn’t have one’ then neither would she.

For decades thereafter, Denis and Mary were a persistent mystery: thanks to the error of the White Star Line, Denis’s surname of Lennon was, for a long time erroneously recorded, as “Lemon.”

The true nature of their relationship was, and still is, uncertain.

And, of course, “Mary Lennon” was elusive in found records, since, technically, she did not exist.

The legacy of Mary and Denis endures even today.

After the disaster, local folklore memorialized the tragedy of the lovesick girl who eloped on Titanic with her family's shop-hand.

An alumna of Loreto Abbey stated during an interview that as late as 1949, the school continued to invoke dedicated prayers each April for Mary Mullin. Hers was their chosen cautionary tale against romantic impulse.

And then, more than seven decades later, Mary and Denis inspired the creation of a fictional, forbidden liaison on the RMS Titanic.

It was a movie about a rich girl, a poor boy, and an angry chase involving a handgun.

“Declaration of Intention”: Franz Pulbaum

Witching Waves Co. was founded by Theophilus Van Kannel, who had also invented the revolving door in 1888.

Van Kannel’s Witching Waves ride debuted in Luna Park, Coney Island, in 1907. It was the same year that Franz arrived in the United States, although there is no evidence at present that the two occasions were related.

The Witching Waves swiftly became the most popular ride at Luna Park, which itself had only opened four years prior in 1903. Soon after its installation, the ride was regarded as a flagship attraction.

Under Luna Park’s hundreds of thousands of dazzling lights, the Witching Waves recreated a so-called “stormy sea experience” in Coney Island’s “Electric Eden.”

The cars, though steerable in the most basic sense, had no starting mechanism, so they had to be manually pushed out of the loading area by a ride attendant.

The cars likewise were not equipped with restraints, resulting in not a few mishaps as riders were bounced about. Riders were sometimes flung head-over-feet from their cars.

Inevitably, more grievous injuries sometimes resulted. In 1919, for example, firemen at Rockaway Beach had to destroy the ride to save a child, ripping it into pieces to rescue a boy who had gotten caught in the floor’s mechanism.

Unfortunately, the Witching Waves suffered a short expiry date; its longevity was often truncated by metal fatigue and an array of mechanical failures.

Despite these operational quirks, another was installed in Manhattan 1910. More Witching Waves rides followed in various amusement parks in both the United States and Europe.

Franz Pulbaum, reportedly a chief mechanic for Witching Waves Co., would have been critical to these subsequent installations.

In 1912, one such installation had recently been completed at Luna Park—a franchise location of Coney Island’s original—in Paris, France.

Franz Pulbaum was sent to inspect it.

By all impressions, Franz seemed to be doing rather well for himself. He used a pocket-sized, leatherbound date book, its binding branded with Maryland Club Rye, which was a popular and elite whiskey made by Cahn, Belt & Co. out of Baltimore. Back home in New York, he had purchased a striped, grey-silk necktie, as well as silk socks, for himself.

Most notably, Franz had just recently received a certificate of “Capital Stock” in the amount of $50,000.00 from Witching Waves Co.: proof enough that he excelled at his work.

All of this while still refining his mastery of the American-English language, as evidenced by the German-to-English dictionary he carried.

During his business trip to Paris, Franz appeared to have enjoyed his leisure time as a tourist.

He collected postcards—29 in all—of various Paris attractions, picturesque scenes of the Seine and Tuileries Garden. Notably, he also carried a postcard of a rollercoaster called Le Scenic Railway, an attraction at the Parisian Luna Park where he carried out his work.

Friends wrote him while he was abroad, sly in their envy as they asked after him and declared he must be enjoying limitless fine wine, being as he was in France.

Franz also made time a visit to his native Germany.

So Franz’s time was well-spent, and his work well-done.

Because his boss, the aforementioned inventor Theophilus Van Kannel, was reportedly so pleased with Franz that, when time came for him to return to the United States, Mr. Van Kannel offered to upgrade his passage.

In 1993, RMS Titanic Inc., proceeded with a recovery expedition of the wreck site.

Amongst the salvaged items from that expedition was unopened luggage.

It belonged to Franz Pulbaum.

Within were the intimate artifacts of his blossoming life: His German-English dictionary. His small leather notebook, containing snippets of advice for the successful modern businessman. His professional tools, rusted but intact, including his fabric tape measurer. A bottle of hair tonic. His collection of Parisian postcards, bundled with string. His brand-new silk socks, still pinned at the toe.

“That Doesn’t Seem a Very Commendable Proceeding”: The Fate of Titanic’s Lifeboats

There were dozens of tug[boats] dodging about the ship, and the lowering away of Titanic’s boats (we could not get into dock until all of the Titanic boats were away from the ship, as seven of them were suspended in our davits and six were in the forecastle head, and so in the way of working the mooring ropes) and these boats, leaving the ship in the blackness of the night with two of the rescued crew in each boat and some of Titanic’s officers in charge of them, it brought back to one’s mind the manner in which these same boats were last lowered from that great and magnificent ship never to reach New York.

Meanwhile, Senator William Alden Smith had conducted a hasty interview with White Star chairman J. Bruce Ismay while he was still on board the Carpathia. Afterward, Senator Smith had informed the press that the surviving lifeboats would be of use in the upcoming Senate inquiry into the loss of the Titanic.

But it would not happen.

After their sleepover in the water, the huddled lifeboats were pulled from the water the next day. The task was undertaken by men working for the firm Merritt & Chapman, whose derrick had assisted the night prior.

Under supervision, the lifeboats were hauled aloft onto the docks between Piers 58 and 59.

Each of the thirteen lifeboats were then inspected and their contents were plainly inventoried by a dockside supervisor named Osborne Thompson.

Mr. Thompson also made note of every lifeboat’s present condition, particularly whether insignia such as Titanic name plates, number plates, or White Star Line flags were absent.

Many were.

Perhaps the surviving lifeboats had been scavenged overnight by relic hunters, stripped of their brass nameplates for souvenirs.

First-class survivor Abraham Salomon, however, offered another explanation, claiming outright that the lifeboats were robbed of their fittings during their recovery at sea.

Mr. Salomon’s assertions have been proven accurate over the course of time, as various fittings from the thirteen lifeboats have appeared in both private and museum collections.

Just as likely, of course, is that some of the affected lifeboats might have simply incurred damage during their handling in the aftermath of the sinking.

Once inventoried by Mr. Thompson, the lifeboats were stored away.

This decision immediately incited media suspicions; the press readily suggested that the White Star Line had something to hide.

It was even reported that a photographer, while attempting to take photos of the mysterious lifeboats, had a gun fired on him by a pier watchman on duty.

But they had not been forgotten.

On the 28th of September, a pair of gentlemen named Henry Masters and Frank Martin carried out a valuation of the thirteen lifeboats at the behest of the White Star Line.

According to Martin and Masters, they came upon the boats at Pier 58. They had been placed on the second story of the dock, and were arranged in no particular order. The men started at the end of the dock with Lifeboat 11.

One by one and with the help of two dockyard employees, the men pulled each boat’s canvas back, measured it, and conducted a detailed assessment. Mr. Martin scribbled the corresponding notes in his ledger.

The lifeboats were all damaged in some way, he recalled—some missing their wooden gunwales, others with broken planks—but in spite of some scuffs, none of them “appeared to be very old.”

The valuation took around 4 or 5 hours.

Just before the new year, the White Star Line hired someone else to assess the lifeboats yet again; this time, the intent was to assess their value in the American marketplace.

The assessor, named Axel Sawman, found them in “the upper part of the shed” at Pier 58, just as his predecessors had. He thereafter conducted an itemization of the separate items and effects of each lifeboat.

Sawman's appraisal is the last known record of Titanic’s thirteen surviving lifeboats. Whether they were recycled, scrapped, or abandoned to rot in that shed, the last relics of the Titanic were never seen again.

Over a century later, evidence of their fate has yet to be found.

“A Few Seconds Later, He Was Gone!”: John Coffey

Titanic’s stopover in Queenstown, which reclaimed its Irish name of Cobh in 1922, was hardly novel. Queenstown had been a major embarkation point for immigrants seeking passage from Ireland for decades. So common was the scene of families parting, that the dock at Queenstown had been nicknamed “Heartbreak Pier.”

Outside the shipping agency of James Scott & Company, over 100 Titanic passengers awaited. The majority held steerage tickets; less than 10 were Second-class passengers.

Two smaller ships, called tenders, met them at Heartbreak Pier that day. They were named the PS America and PS Ireland.

The Ireland ushered on board some local journalists, who were there to document the brand-new Titanic at her final port of call before undertaking her maiden voyage. About ten Titanic ticketholders followed the press on board.

Then the Ireland surprised its few passengers by slipping away from the PS America, which was still loading up.

But the Ireland cruised to a stop nearby in the Deepwater Quay alongside the railway station. It turned out she needed to pick up over 1300 bags of mail that Titanic was to deliver stateside.

A passenger reshuffle between the Ireland and the America occurred shortly thereafter, when tardy ticketholders arrived at the dock last-minute. They had been held up by a late train.

A photographer named Thomas Barker, sent by the Cork Examiner, decided at this moment to hop from the Ireland over to the adjacent America, to snap a picture of the heaps of the Ireland’s mailbags.

In the foreground, some of Titanic’s steerage passengers can be seen, caught in media res. The photo is an involuntary candid in monochrome: a scene in motion, comprised of blurred arms, side profiles, and ladies’ hats.

Titanic was anchored about two miles offshore, near the Roche’s Point Lighthouse.

As the America and the Ireland scurried to meet her, a 29-year-old mill weaver named Eugene Daly “played many native airs” on his pipes to the delight and wistfulness of his peers on board.

It is commonly reported that, along with mail and passengers, local vendors also boarded the Titanic during her stopover in Queenstown. Typical wares would have included local specialties, such as Irish lace. It was a go-to commodity made and sold to wealthy passengers on liners that called upon Queenstown.

The aforementioned John Coffey was a 23-year-old stoker on Titanic. He had already been under the employ for the White Star Line, most recently serving on Titanic’s elder sister Olympic.

But when his tenure on Olympic was done, John found himself deposited back on the docks in Southampton, England.

John had a registered address there in Southampton for when he was in between jobs, but his hometown was Queenstown, Ireland. And having quit the Olympic, he was left a fair distance from home, and with presumably little money to get back there.

Once Titanic was settled in Southampton, John would have been well aware that she would seek crew for that voyage.

And he likewise would have known that, before Titanic would chase her sister’s shadow across the Atlantic, she would make two stops: one in Cherbourg, France, on 10 April, and the other—most conveniently for John Coffey—in Queenstown on the 11th.

And so, on 6 April, John Coffey signed onto Titanic as a fireman.

But he didn’t intend to stick around.

The Southampton Evening Echo reported the following from John’s fellow fireman John Podesta.

John was reportedly still present in Queenstown the next day, when the news broke that Titanic had foundered.

Immediately dubbed “The Lucky Stoker,” John’s abscondence was transformed from desertion into fateful escape.

In the aftermath of the sinking, John’s near-miss with tragedy became a widespread and popular tale. In each retelling, however, his motive varied.

The Cork Examiner reported that John Coffey “did not relish his job.”

Alternately, Jack Podesta had reported outright that John deserted Titanic that day in order to visit his mother.

And then, of course, John himself reportedly gave interviews in which he stated he was compelled by unshakeable foreboding, or ill omen.

As soon as two days after the sinking, on 17 April, it was reported that “one fireman, who felt that something was sure to happen, deserted at Queenstown.”

Regardless of the reason, John Coffey spared himself that day.

And Titanic, steaming steadily away from her final port of call, would never be seen again.

Category: Titanic Week 2026

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